


Two Bed Two Bath

by pettiot



Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [12]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Class Issues, Exiles, M/M, Personality Issues, fractious relationship, lower middle class, mild feminisation as insults, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22732897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Inspired by a kinkmeme prompt requesting a Modern Day Fenris/Anders AU, established relationship, where they try to adopt.
Relationships: Fenris/Anders
Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619464
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

It was just a spit party, and Anders didn’t even like roast lamb.

Not that Fenris liked it any more, except the invitation had been issued two weeks prior and accepted on behalf of the both of them with no protest. Anders’ last minute change of heart surprised him, delivered as it was with an offhand firmness. There was no room for dialogue. 

Fenris watched. Anders paced in front of the television as he argued with the news report, limited as he was to two and a bit strides in any direction before hitting the apartment walls. Fenris collected a sixpack from the fridge, and, after checking the top on one for twistability, their novelty switchblade bottle opener. He closed the door behind him with no especial emphasis.

Anders startled at the lock’s click.

He turned off the tv. Dithered. Frowned at the oven clock. 7.30pm, and, well, he just said he didn't want to go, hadn't he. So.

He stood for a good ten minutes, uncertain. Then he checked the fridge and the pantry shelf. For reasons he couldn't explain, not even the relative bareness of the fridge, he heated half a carton of long life milk to prepare a dinner of junket drizzled with maple syrup, which he ate while it was still lukewarm and dripping. Half way through, he put the bowl down for the dog and slumped on the crate repurposed as a coffee table.

Why had he changed his mind? No, he knew that: company still felt like a waste of time even if it was enjoyed. After practically a full day of playing the Emotionally Capable Defacto Son for Fenris’ mother, who had just received news of another issue with her heart, there had been much enjoyment in the shared company -- Anders liked family, or the appearance of it, at least -- but also a huge sense of wasted time. The question was not why Anders didn’t want to go, but why Fenris had left as abruptly as he had.

They should have argued about it. They always argued. The simple departure left Anders feeling hollow. He tugged the elastic from his ponytail and flicked it at the dog, who responded by flipping the (quarter full) bowl of junket all over the floor.

Somewhere between grabbing his keys and lacing his sheepskin boots, Anders changed his mind from the idea of pursuit. Catching the train out to the southeastern suburbs was a risky ride even during peak hour, but at this time of night? And it was freezing. Imagine standing around a lamb on a spit on a night like this. A night to be grateful for socked toes and the wool lining his boots. The joint downstairs supplied a steaming burger for dinner, but the teenaged clientele, dressed for nightclubs, were laughing at him. Or he was being particularly paranoid about having not brushed his hair for two days. Either way, he returned home to eat. The dog poached the bag and wrapper and made confetti for their man and dog party. 

Anders couldn’t sit still. The burger hadn't satisfied; no loose coin for chips. He checked the fridge several times in succession. Each time, the dog came to sit by his feet, waiting for falling providence. Anders resented her optimism. Fenris’ five large airtight boxes mocked him with their emptiness, labelled in block letters MUN to FRY. Typically they contained a daily ration of appropriate caloric and nutrient intake, vegetables, fruit, nuts, pre-measured, prepared as far as feasible for freshness, and wrapped for maximum preservation of quality. But it was Saturday, wasn’t it? Fenris’ no-shop Saturday rule. There were ample protein shakes -- oh, there were always ample fucking protein shakes, which surely cost more than meat, which Fenris ate but never purchased. Anders would sooner eat Mun and Fry’s plastic lids than drink powdered protein.

On the fifth such check, Anders stared blindly at a second sixpack tucked between the boxes, the glass frosted with chill. His eyes watered uncontrollably. 

For him. And he hadn’t even noticed Fenris heading out to buy beer. 

Anders took several shaky breaths. His hands trembled. He was not letting this happen; there was nothing to happen. It was beer. Something else had to be causing this. Fruit. He hadn’t eaten fruit all day. He raided the pantry shelf in desperation. Beans, beans, tuna, alphabet spaghetti. The latter bought in a bit of friendly mockery after Fenris received his much belated high school certification. Anders opened and drank a can of passionfruit in syrup. Milk slurry, burgers and passionfruit syrup. His stomach clenched. Shortly enough after that, he tried their ensuite toilet, which was lacking in toilet paper, checked the laundry cupboard, found no surplus, then tried the toilet off the entry and gratefully used the last few squares on the resolution of the necessary. He washed his hands with a sliver of laundry soap.

The bathroom mirror was spotted with random splashes and fingerprints, but was clear enough where it mattered. Anders rubbed the chap of his lips, a flake of skin peeling off to bleed. He cupped his hands under the tap and drank half a litre of water and felt -- better, he supposed. Less like dying. Maybe the passionfruit had done it after all. His heartbeat steadied.

It was nothing. Fenris was at a spit night, eating roast lamb he didn’t like with people he didn't like from a job he didn't like. It was 9pm on a Saturday evening, the dog farting away comfortably on the sofa, the heat on, and Anders had time to himself. 

Determined to wring some kind of productivity out of the hours left to him, he poked at his literature review for the next publication due. The work demanded a kind of focus he was all too willing to give, not so much enjoying the intensity as allowing it to quiet everything else inexplicable and out of his control. He was surprised when it reached midnight without distraction.

The apartment was still empty. Lingering dog farts. Too cold to open the place’s only window, and if he did then it would smell instead of the lingering old burgers from the kebab-o-clock soon to be occurring next door, when the corner pub would close. Anders stretched and winced.

He felt a little bitter, still, at the strong sense of having wasted another day. But logic could be asserted over his idiot emotion. Today was now Sunday. Saturday had been a productive day, in fact. In addition to visiting with Fenris' mother, they had bought the replacement lights for their apartment; one area in which they could agree unanimously, LEDs whatever the cost and as bright as bloody possible. Anders had initiated (and completed, to his own surprise) a full tidy of their bedroom, rediscovering a coat he thought he lost. Fenris had pulled apart and repaired their months-defunct rangehood. Anders’ undergrad textbooks, sitting for months in the boot of Fenris’ car, had finally found a bookshop willing to take them on for store credit, a grand total of thirty five dollars for some thousand or so dollars of investment. Fenris’ regular Friday night action movie rental had been walked up the road together and returned on time. Extra large coffees had been bought and drunk in the coffee shop below their apartment, while Fenris read in stoic silence line by agonisingly slow line the grubby communal newspaper. Fenris' lotto ticket and scratchies had been dutifully bought, filed and scratched. The dog had her ears fondled affectionately by strangers on her walk. Fenris’ familial bondage had been reaffirmed, Anders giving generously the emotional support that Fenris thought half his pay packet already provided. A miraculously non-eventful encounter with Fenris’ stylish sister had also taken place, a benign sign in spite of the initial trepidation on seeing Varania’s rusty Volvo parked outside the mother’s place. 

He shouldn't be feeling like this.

Anders went to his bed, stomach still uneasy. Ordered the dog off Fenris’ single and out of the room entirely. He fell asleep waiting for the sound of the key in the door.

  



	2. Chapter 2

Anders fumbled for his phone blindly. Squinted unhappily into the glow as he swiped off the alarm. 

A grumble from the bed beside him. 'What time is it?'

'Ten past nine.'

'Late.' Fenris didn’t stir.

It was unlike him, and signified the mother of a hangover. Anders stepped on the creaking part of the floor on his way to open the skylight, slamming the ensuite door behind him. As best as one could slam a sliding door. Anders had finished his shower and was examining himself critically in the narrow mirror before Fenris stumbled in.

Anders ignored the retching. Fenris performed it with characteristic efficiency, then climbed awkwardly past him into the shower, deflated.

The mirror fogged. Anders sat on the toilet and watched.

'So how was it? Last night.'

A noncommittal shrug. Eyes tightly closed. Fenris used far too much shampoo for such thin hair. 'Sebastian came. Still trying to talk me into the business.' Fenris managed a single earnest stare before the shampoo descended. ‘He didn’t ask after you.'

‘Well. Good.’

‘Went to the casino after. With Isabela.’ Fenris closed off the water. ‘Nothing happened.’

‘Except you went to the casino.’ He hated that he sounded resentful.

‘The day you start real work is the day you get to tell me what to do with my money.’

‘Fuck you. Writing is work.’

Looking amused, Fenris attacked himself with the towel, bare inches away. Anders didn’t like it when Fenris loomed, spared only a moment’s thought for what Fenris must feel like with the majority of the population always looming over him. He stood.

Easily, Fenris pushed him down again and ran warm fingers through his hair. Relaxed. The towel fell.

‘We’re late.’ A warm murmur. ‘Did you air out your suit last night?’

The fingers, the smell of old alcohol and medicated soap. The lack of sleep. Anders opened his eyes begrudgingly and peeled his lips from the fuzz on the belly. 

‘Huh?’ 

The fingers stilled. ‘Did you forget?’

‘Forget— Oh.’

They skipped breakfast in favour of blowdrying Fenris’ hair, which only made him look marginally less like a doused cat. The suit was slightly too big for his lower half, bunching at the ankles and never quite fitted around the arse, even if the shoulders sat perfectly. Fenris begrudged the cost of a tailor with a fashion designer in his family, which Anders could understand, even if the way Fenris seemed to expect his sister to _offer_ him the benefit of her skills without him ever having to ask -- that was typical, and infuriating. The suit stayed untailored.

‘Now we look like an extremely confused pair of evangelists. I’m sure she’d be more comfortable if we wore jeans.’

Fenris gave him another of those earnest stares. It had been years before Fenris even said his name; years before Anders ever knew he was capable of such openness in a single glance. 

‘This is important.’

Anders shrugged into his jacket in prickling acquiescence, conscious of the musty smell. He bundled up the plastic shroud for later reuse. ‘No ties, though. It's too much. Trust me, I've lived here longer than you.’

‘Are you—’

‘I’m sure. No ties. And don’t tread on your heels like that, they’re not slippers. Feet in properly.’ Anders knelt to attend, knowing it would subvert the argument.

A mocking growl, then Fenris took advantage of the position to tidy Anders' hair into a tail. As they went down the stairs, Fenris tapped him on the arse. Suppressed excitement. Fenris held himself so tightly in reserve most of the time, Anders never knew what to make of those moments when he let that energy out.

Spreading the road map across the hood of the car, Fenris followed the route and counted to himself silently, memorising the turns. The drive passed in general silence. 

They crossed the river and entered suburbia.

The factory was further down this same road, but today they would be turning off well before reaching the industrial area. It would be close to Fenris’ work, if they lived out here. Thinking about Fenris’ work led to thinking about Sebastian and his constant attempts to get Fenris out of the factory. As much as Anders was behind Fenris ditching the worthless job, something about Sebastian's approach made Anders resentful. Not that he thought Fenris couldn’t function as a subcontractor. The bookkeeping and accounts would be difficult, sure, but Fenris made up for it with knowing his business. Bookkeepers could be hired.

Maybe it was the risk. They’d worked so hard to get to a point which felt like stability compared to their lives before. Then in ponced Sebastian Vael and his big ideas, with his safety net of hereditary wealth, taking suave and daring risks and encouraging others to do the same as if everyone had the same fallback. The fear, that one day Fenris would agree. Fenris oscillated between needing absolute certainty before acting, versus those days -- nights -- when he inexplicably spent seven hours playing two up with a random gang of bikers or ex-SAS he’d met and befriended. As if that whole situation couldn't turn bad in an instant.

There was also Sebastian’s attitude. Fenris didn’t need rescuing. It enraged Anders when Fenris never seemed to take offense at Sebastian’s white knight performance.

‘I thought we would park in the shopping centre and walk down. It’s only a block away.’

‘Good idea.’ Anders hid the grin. Then she wouldn’t see the incongruity of men in middle tier suits getting out of a rusted old bomb. Fenris was weird about appearances, stiffening uncomfortably as they netted a few strange looks on their walk. Anders let his jacket fall open and enjoyed the winter sun. Early on a Sunday morning, the shops didn’t even open until after lunch. 

Apart from the large, chain store centre, the area was a mix of hipster cafes, novelty retail and op shops. The odd derelict residence, too, windows boarded up. Anders paused to look at the man slumped in the arch of a door, Fenris tugging him away abruptly. Six months doing first aid in a Bombay slum hardly changed the world; an old fight. Fenris had been more insulted on learning how Anders spent his gap year than from any actual and quantifiable slight on his origin that Sebastian gave.

Turning off the main street, the low scale shops ceded to weatherboard houses and box trees. Lots of For Sale signs, but just as many renovations and extensions occurring. Nine houses down and they stood on the porch of a creaking old house which would have benefited from a bulldozer. Fenris shoved his fists into pockets and hunched, shuffling to stare over the balustrade, leaving an exasperated Anders to knock.

‘Macha?’ Anders let his smile spread. He imagined generous waves of warmth. A small, round face, wide eyes. Younger than he’d expected, younger than her photo, but really. What could you expect? She wore a self made skirt and a loose tee, the choker the only part which looked even vaguely slutty. He shook her hand. No kiss to the knuckles, despite his instincts towards women; they weren’t so formal in this country. ‘I’m Anders. A pleasure. Thank you for seeing us.’

‘Oh, and...’ Macha hung off the handle of the security screen, watching as Fenris came over. 

Language could be learned. But nothing would hide that hesitation, when Anders was unsure if Fenris was about to lean in and kiss her on the cheeks, or bow; nor which action would have been weirder. The moment passed, then Fenris also shook Macha’s hand. She looked down in poorly concealed shock.

Fenris retracted fingers into the shadow of his sleeve. ‘Good morning, ma'am.’

The shuttered mask, the faint hint of something sullen. The trouble they both had, a friend once told them; they broadcast their moods like radios. Small wonder they so often set each other off. 

Fenris’ sullenness now was not surprising. He ranted about the process before; sending them out to doorknock as if they were beggars. Anders felt a helpless pang. If Fenris would just show that earnest, open look more freely, everyone would have to love him. Instead this. He could almost see it panning out already, Fenris talking slightly too loud, a bored, lecturing monotone, coming across like a total arsehole when he was only half of one. Showing his ignorance in his refusal to ask questions. Anders tried to bolster his imagined projection of trustworthiness and loveability to compensate. 

‘Should we go inside? The agency sent out a standard list of questions to start off the conversation. I wish all conversations were as easy as that.’ Macha kept staring at Fenris, clearly daunted. Anders tried to suppress the instinct to touch her shoulder, guide her back into the house. ‘Perhaps some tea?’

She practically panicked at the suggestion. ‘I’ve only got coffee.’

Fenris’ mouth twitched. Almost a smile. The sense of imminent threat subsided. ‘Coffee is good.’

Anders let out a breath and gave Fenris a passing glare behind Macha’s back, to which Fenris arched an eyebrow and pushed to take the lead. The too-long length of his trousers covering that he was already half-shuffled out of his shoes, socked heels treading down the backs.

  



	3. Chapter 3

‘I’m sorry. About all of this.’ 

Which was a little ambiguous, Anders thought. He tried to imagine if the trait was one which would pass on to a child, or was a consequence of the generally depressing surroundings provoking Macha to apologise. The house rear wall was completely deconstructed, tarps doing little against the cold from the shadowed side. The kitchen was a bench, a powerboard, and a couple of buckets.

‘The owners are renovating, but it’s so hard to find a place to rent, so I-- I couldn’t lock up so I asked the agency if you wouldn’t mind coming out here. I know they recommend we meet at their offices or at your place, but you can see--’

Macha hovered by the bench, plugging in the hotplate. A cafeteria came out of a well-ordered cupboard, a tiny drawer withdrawn from a manual coffee grinder filling the breezy room with a delicious smell. A sealed bottle of water freshly opened filled the reservoir.

Warmed by the evidence of some kind of quality, Anders moved to put her at ease. ‘Our place is worse. Tiny. Would’ve hardly had room to fit between us and the dog.’

Fenris spoke to Anders, not Macha, in typical high irritation. ‘There’s plenty of room. Two bed, two bath. Two storeys.’

‘Yes, the real estate agent called it a loft penthouse. Somehow the gloss wears off when you realise it’s only got one window.’

‘One very large window. With a view.’

Macha saved them from the old argument, bless her. ‘So the baby would have her own room?’

Anders held Fenris’ gaze until Fenris took the hint, turning to make eye contact with Macha, however briefly. ‘For a while. I won— bought some land with a house...much like this on it, larger, and dilapidated. Several years ago. I’m waiting for the value in the apartment to reach the point where I can afford to either renovate or rebuild.’

‘About another five years,’ Anders said. ‘We estimate.’

‘The market’s picking up now the mines have reopened.’ A hesitation, then Fenris volunteered, ‘This area is forecast to do very well.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t -- don’t own anything.’

An uncomfortable silence. Anders shouldered Fenris when Macha turned to wiggle the cafeteria needlessly. ‘Well, should we sit and start?’

The interview stayed relatively close to the script the agency had passed over. Generalisations, safe territory, and Macha unwound further after Fenris complimented the coffee. Prompted by discussion of uncles/aunts (Anders admitted to having no siblings, while Fenris stayed unsurprisingly silent on the matter), Macha brought out a photo album of herself and her brother.

‘Your brother was in service?’ Fenris, quick enough to leap onto the uniform. His eyes flicked from the posed photo to the next. ‘That’s...J____. I recognise the Arch.’

Macha nodded, then bit her lip. ‘He went AWOL, they said. Took off with a local lady and...But he wouldn’t have done that. It’s just me and mum here, I know he wouldn’t have. They were all very sympathetic but no one believed me.’ The album went away very quickly. ‘Old news.’

Another awkward silence. Anders quelled the urge to reach for Fenris’ hand.

‘So,’ Macha tried for cheer. ‘How did you two meet? You seem very different.’

‘A friend introduced us.’ 

Anders gave Fenris a look of mock disgust. ‘That’s not the fun way of telling it.’

‘Oh, it was fun, was it?’

‘There were fireworks,’ Anders said. ‘Literally. A mutual friend asked us to meet with her at a sky show. Ex-girlfriend of mine, Fenris was with her at the time. I was raging jealous all night, hadn’t said a word to anyone. For some reason it ended up with him and me sitting drunk on a sofa in the middle of someone’s random house sometime after three am and out of nowhere he says--’

‘That’s enough.’

‘Quite the opposite!’

Fenris flushed ugly and mottled, when he could be provoked to blush. ‘I’m sure Macha doesn’t want to hear it.’

‘What, because it’s dirty? I’m sure Macha’s a big girl now.’ _Selling her womb and all_ , Anders narrowly avoided saying.

‘It’s private, Anders. Have some dignity.’

Anders rolled his eyes openly, inviting Macha to get on board, but she just sat forward looking concerned. ‘Us, we, took three years before we did anything about it. My tenure at the university was up, as was the accommodation attached to the position. Our mutual girlfriend had stayed in touch with Fenris after they split; she always had a love of taking care of strays. Things were arranged for us, then a couple of years later it -- we -- just seemed a given.’

‘You discovered you got on together really well?’ The disbelief was evident.

‘No.’

‘Not really.’

‘More that it just seemed...’ Anders floundered.

‘Inevitable.’ Said with the ponderousness of tomb doors closing. 

Macha’s eyes widened. Anders resisted the urge to cover his face. ‘That -- probably sounds worse than it should. It was just, We were there, together. And it worked for me. I’d never really had a long term relationship before. He watered my plants when I forgot and he was always making the tea, and it was... More than I knew anyone would ever do for me again.’ 

Anders looked across, expecting something. Fenris focused with extreme intensity on something in the corner, a response clearly not forthcoming.

‘Sometimes I’m a little in awe of it all.’ Anders felt too exposed; it came out bitter. Left out to hang. No. _Hung out to dry,_ that was the idiom. He felt exactly like he did when trying to play the Emotionally Competent Son role when talking to Fenris’ mother.

Macha gaze softened into something akin to pity.

The conversation died after that, killed by Fenris’ fell blow. Farewells were exchanged, Macha saw them somewhat farcically to the door. When they were back on the street, much warmer in the sun than the freezing house interior, Anders struggled against the knot of shame stopping him from speaking. It’d all come out in a rush, if he let it. Every time they fought he did the same thing, every slight recounted in minute detail, a decent memory no help when every bitterness simply accrued interest.

‘That went well,’ Fenris said.

He walked nearly the length of another house before realising Anders had stopped. Turned and raised an eyebrow. Something about the intimacy of the expression averted crisis, and Anders found himself laughing instead of shouting, helplessly. 

‘Sarcasm is usually accompanied by a tonal shift, you know.’

Fenris made a dismissive noise. ‘She was too pale. A child would look more like you, nothing like me.’

‘Is that important? Can’t imagine we’ll find so many surrogates of C____n ancestry in this city. You could ask your sister!‘

Fenris shrugged that off with a violent wince. ‘I didn’t know it was important until I met her. Macha.’

‘An excuse for cold feet.’ Anders tried to sound forgiving. But at least it meant Fenris was trying to visualise their future child. Sometimes Anders had his doubts.

‘I don’t know. I just. It wasn’t right.’ A pause, then Fenris sighed. ‘You did it again. Spoke of Marian. That would have hardly helped with a good impression.’

Another old irritation Anders tried to stifle. ‘A positive thing, Fenris, that we can both stay friends with an ex-girlfriend.’

They walked back onto the main street in silence, Fenris brooding conspicuously. It took the first double take from an old man crossing the road before Fenris suddenly spoke up.

‘When you bring up past women I feel ashamed. As if you have to prove even to complete strangers that you could have a girlfriend, or a wife, if you wanted.’

‘That’s bullshit.’

The voice flattened. ‘My feeling ashamed is bullshit to you?’

Anders was not intending to be intimidated. ‘Not what I meant, and you know it.’

‘You expect me to always give you the benefit of the doubt. Whereas you always invalidate all my feelings and expect me to accept it.’ The flat look. ‘Like a submissive little wife.’

‘I do not. You’re imagining things.’

‘You’re doing it even now.’

‘Anyway, Marian would disabuse you rather quickly if she heard you say women are supposed to be submissive.’

‘That is not what I said. Stop changing the subject. I said you expect me to act as some submissive wife—’

‘There you go again with the gender roles. Grey hair aside, you’re not that much of an old man you can get away with that.’

Fenris stopped still again, uncaring for the few other pedestrians. ‘Women have nothing to do with you and I.’

There was no real reason that should have hurt. 

‘Funny, I thought all this started because you can’t handle being _bisexual_. That's clearly got to do with women.’

‘You’re the one who feels the constant need to bring up women. Everywhere we go, you always go on about how many women you’ve slept with. You always disrespect me. You assume that I’ll forgive everything you do because you believe you’re _better_ than me, or whiter, or more intelligent, or more educated, because you have however many pointless, worthless, theoretical degrees. You treat me, not like a woman, _forget women_ , you treat me like some European overlord’s fantasy of a _wife_. If you wanted a mail-order boy bride you should have read the advert more closely—’

The hands waved about, wider motions as Fenris’ voice escalated in intensity. Anders tried to avert the fingerpointing. ‘Are we really having this conversation here? On the street, with Mister It’s-Private?’

The smile was more wolfish than pleasant. ‘What’s wrong, Anders? Seeing as you were on the verge of spilling almost everything to Macha and embarrassing me.’

‘What’s so embarrassing about admitting you missed anal sex? Not like you weren’t half paralytic with booze when you said it. That first year you couldn't even get it up unless you were drunk first.’

Fenris’ cheeks flushed dark. ‘That’s over with.’

‘Oh, really? How’s the hangover, Fenris? _Hey_ , don't turn your back on me. You were the one who refused to admit you remembered me from before either of us met Marian. The first three sodding years we kept running into each other, I wondered if I’d dreamed that night—’ 

‘I’m not embarrassed.’ Quietly. ‘You won’t even walk into a gay bar with me.’

_That_ threw up an image, a memory, which made Anders bite his tongue at the automatic urge to start shouting back. Still it coiled inward, bitter and hurting. It had to go somewhere. ‘Well, if you wanted to do a good impression of a shrewish wife I’d say you—’

A few years ago, Fenris would have hit him. The whole compact body clenched, storm of decades of training ready to uncoil, fist already formed. Heard the imagined crack of flesh on flesh echoing, felt, again, his core quivering with the knowledge that _he deserved it_ , every blow, _sharp tongue, quick wit, slow feet, bad little bratling_. Too many roles they'd both had to play, in worlds where the divide was those who were hit, and those who did the hitting.

Except the attack never came, Fenris breathing in, deeply. Clear space between them now and ready for a fight, Fenris’ scrapper instinct still as strong as ever, but the fists clenched, released. Such deep, slow, breaths. Anders had a brief image of Fenris when he slept, forehead somehow more lined with worry than it was when he was awake. His chest clenched with urge, the absolute need to touch Fenris with love. _Now._

He couldn’t move. Fenris was right. The instinct against discovery was too strong.

A matter of heartbeats, but the crisis unravelled before it could occur. When Fenris opened his eyes they were almost warm. Anders saw the hand rise as if to reach for him. Fall, action aborted before it was more than a twitch.

‘And it started out such a good day.’

Anders started. Stopped. His eyes pricked with inexplicable tears; they didn’t fall. ‘I love you.’

Fenris rocked on his heels. Bit his lip.

‘For exactly that,’ Anders said, as quietly as he could bear. _For not... not even when I deserve it._ ‘You’ve…become so much. I _love_ you.’

A slow headshake before Fenris fell into step with him again. Before they started to move. In a voice just as quiet. ‘The problem is you expect me to be grateful for it.’

‘Can we just...’ The words didn’t want to come. ‘Let’s just get lunch, all right? Brunch. Whatever. I’m not physically prepared for all this emotion without breakfast in me.’

‘All right.’ Fenris well knew what Anders was like without food; he didn’t waste any time, scanning the street. He pointed at a narrow bar tucked between two retail outlets, windows and main door open, walls and frontage painted a chalkboard black. ‘Right over there.’

‘Your shout.’ Anders couldn’t resist.

‘Isn’t it always?’

‘And you think _you’re_ the wife.’

A quick, barely-there grin. ‘I suppose that makes you the mistress.’

  



	4. Chapter 4

The bar was too hip and slightly too empty, Fenris instantly on edge and trying to suppress it. Perhaps because they were in suits, no fewer than three waitstaff hastened over, eager to conduct them to a table. 

‘Not the window,’ Anders said, for Fenris’ sake. ‘The banquette? Just not right by the kitchen.’

They were escorted and slotted into the half-booth, Anders angling for the cushioned seat while Fenris took the chair, clearly discomforted even further.

Fenris waited until the eager young man retreated. ‘I’d prefer the corner.’

Anders smiled broadly. ‘I know.’

‘So will you swap? I like being able to see the whole room.’

‘You need to get over this inexplicable fear someone’s going to jump you from behind. I’m taller, this chair is lower. Just deal with it.’

Fenris simply stared. ‘I thought you loved me.’

‘I love this cushion more.’ Anders picked up the breakfast menu, a handwritten, photocopied attempt at laid-back pinned to a ragged clipboard, and examined it studiously.

Over the top, he could see Fenris slowly concede to the need to read, staring too hard at his menu, held too close to the face. His eyebrows came together in a frown, lips gone tight against the urge Anders knew was there, to shape the words. The oh-so-funky handwriting couldn’t be making it any easier, Anders realised.

‘I’ll have the beans.’

Fenris put down his menu immediately. ‘I’m having the beans.’

‘You can’t just say you want what I’m having. That’s cheating.’

‘I want the beans. On toast.’ The jaw set, stubborn.

‘Well, fine. Now I have to get something else.’

The young waiter, despite his apparent eagerness earlier, appeared to be giving them ample space until Anders stacked their menus together in a meaningful fashion, then put the bottle of water on them. Only then did he ease himself out of the aesthetic pose back against the counter and approach.

‘Youse ready to order?’ Contrary to the usual, the boy looked directly at Fenris, meeting his eye, pen poised over pad in expectation.

Anders saw the moment when Fenris went blank, scrabbling for the menu. Where the water bottle impeded process. The eyes scanned down, unable to find what he was looking for, and Fenris muttered something about it being the wrong menu, reaching for the second board. 

Fenris hated it when Anders spoke for him. ‘The beans on toast, seeded sourdough if you have any. And an open bacon sandwich on toasted rye. Two flat whites.’

Fenris’ gaze had gone out the window, shoulders hunched. ‘Skim for me. No butter.’

The boy’s comfortably blank service expression didn’t twitch. ‘Izzat no butter on the seeded sourdough or no butter on the rye?’

‘The, uh...first one.’

‘Righto, boss.’ Inexplicably, he winked at Anders, then slouched off.

Again, Fenris waited for distance before speaking. ‘What was--’

‘Nothing. Eagerness of youth.’

‘The service industry in this city has no respect.’ 

‘Yes, because it’s a mining town because of uncultured working class grunts with too much money and no one ever tips and it’s a disgrace and no one has any respect any more for the value of working in retail or service so it only attracts idiots living like hipsters waiting to inherit their parents' dubiously gained wealth and if you were still in the service industry you’d show them all.’

Surprisingly, considering Anders had pulled the words out of his mouth, Fenris huffed a laugh behind closed lips. Again, Anders felt that mixed pull of pride and shame, that Fenris could have latched on to the embarrassment of the menu gaffe -- that even so close as a couple of years ago, he would have, souring the entire day -- instead only rocking back in the chair and laughing. The features, so smooth usually, became such a riot of unexpected laugh lines when Fenris smiled. 

Compulsed, Anders reached across the table, fingers forming a fist for no good reason he could articulate. Excess sentiment. Fenris regarded the fist for a moment then pushed his own scarred knuckles against Anders’, fleeting.

The coffee came startlingly quick; momentary confusion when the girl assumed the skim was for Anders. So quick to arrive, in fact, Anders expected it to be burned, but while the taste was sharply bitter, the carbon taint was absent.

‘Strange blend.’

Fenris nodded. ‘I like it.’

‘You and your weird tongue for bitter things. I still can’t stand that wine you like--’

‘Macha,’ Fenris interrupted. ‘Let’s say that didn’t go as badly as we assume, and she tells the agency yes.’

‘But I thought she was too pale.’

‘I might have said that flippantly. She was...sweet? Nothing like my sister, at least.’

‘I don’t know. She apologised too much. That sort of thing is hereditary.’

‘I was imagining her as my child. How I would feel if my child were forced to live in those circumstances. She had me feeling very,’ Fenris searched visibly for the word, forcing it past his reserve. ‘Protective.’

Anders tried to mask his surprise. ‘You didn’t show it. Couldn’t have made her more uncomfortable if you’d tried.’

But the grey head simply shook, Fenris bending to his coffee. Something sad there. ‘I was angry, but not at her. No one should have to live in half a house, with a government hiding her brother’s kidnap from her. The money we could give her--’

‘Hey, hold on. You’re the one who objects to charity. So you’d give Macha our eighty grand blithely because you feel sorry for her, but you call me out as a privileged idiot for doing charity work in a slum in Bombay?’

‘Your reasons were what I objected to, not the actual charity.’ The eyes flashed. ‘And it’s my eighty grand.’

‘ _Our_ child. _Our_ eighty grand. I’ve made sacrifices too, you know. I could have taken up that offer for tenure in M_____, the money was great. But no, you didn’t want to move, so I stayed.’

A dismissive wave. ‘They would have fired you when they realised you haven’t published in four years.’

Incredulous. ‘I published six times over the last three months alone—’

‘Articles on other people’s blogs don’t count.’ Fenris said the word _blogs_ with a distaste reserved for the dog’s shits after a plate full of fish Fenris hadn’t eaten.

‘Yes they _do_. Just because you can’t turn on a computer—’

‘Lower your voice.’

‘Don’t tell me to lower my voice, with you sitting there waving your hands around fit to take out an eye. A whole row of eyes. So much for your so called _reserve_.’

Unexpectedly, Fenris burgeoned into a full grin, crooked lower teeth and all. ‘You bring out the best in me.’

‘What’s that, stubborn buttfuck pointless argument for the sake of argument?’ Anders tried not to sound sullen. Only partly a success. It was a crime how Fenris’ voice deepened like that.

‘Yes, exactly.’ Another pause, ‘Talking back doesn’t come naturally. But you’ve always made it so much easier.’

‘To shout me down? Yes, thank you. I live to be your venting post.’

Fenris’ eyes were still alight. ‘There are worse things to be. Such as an unpublished author.’

‘Oh, shut up. Now you’re just trying to make me embarrass myself.’

‘You shouldn't make it so easy.’

Unlike the coffee, the wait time for their food was too long. The dialogue found a natural silence, and Fenris started looking around, frowning at the wine bottles decorating the long wall at Anders’ back. 

‘Bad idea,’ Fenris said. ‘Not optimal storage temperature for wine in here. If they tried to serve from those I would complain.’

‘But it looks good.’

‘Just like the waitstaff. Looks good, entirely useless.’

‘Yes, all right. Say it louder, maybe they'll miss when they try to spit in our food.’

Fenris moved on to criticising the water jug, which was in reality a pasta sauce jar. ‘Do you think they actually recycled these?’ Fenris’ gaze went across the tables near them, scoffing at the repetition of identical pasta jars. ‘Ordered especially in bulk.’

That made Anders look as well, scanning across the surrounding, slowly increasing population of the bar. He and Fenris weren't the only table of two men, though at this time of day they were the only ones in suits. Several other pairings of two men, or two women. Sipping juices or coffees. Fairly young -- he and Fenris might well have been the oldest clientele. One solitary mixed group of four, two men and two women, finishing their coffees and rising. Unexpectedly, the two men stood together, too close for friendship in this country; the women doing the same. 

Anders saw the smile one of the standing girls gave her partner. Clearly her partner. There was a certain level of edginess in the look and styling of other patrons reoccuring as regularly as the pasta jars. Anders felt a beginning niggle of realisation, just as Fenris sat sharply forward.

‘Is this a gay bar?’ In a low voice.

Oh, but that would have been far too... Anders felt his palms suddenly burst warm and wet, pressed them dry against his trousers. A steady swallow. ‘I didn't know, if it was.’ 

But this seemed to please Fenris to an unaccountable extent. He even took his jacket off, slinging it over the back of the chair, rocking in a way he only ever did at home. At ease in a way he rarely was in public places. 

‘Or maybe it’s just Sunday morning gay happy hour. All the gays come out for their permitted hour of socialisation.’

'Idiot.' Fenris was not going to be dissuaded from his momentary content, it seemed. ‘I note you didn’t shrivel up and die in a poof of passive gayness, either.’ 

Flinched at the pointed comment. ‘Listen, I don’t have a problem with gay bars. Or with being seen with you in a bar.’ Or every single assumption about them that seemed to come with the territory. Anders remembered the waiter’s casual _boss_ and tried to forget. ‘It’s just...I don’t like the scene.’

Fenris gestured around them, generous. _This is the scene._ ‘Apart from the criminal mistreatment of wine, I have no real objection.’ A flick of sympathy, terribly rare from him. ‘It’s not all like it was for you. Different country now.’

Never could find a place where both of them were happy, it seemed. Anders picked at his nails to avoid meeting Fenris’ eye. Their meals came, finally, not at all suffering for the extended wait. 

Fenris ate immediately, Anders poking soulfully at his bacon. Looking across at Fenris continuing to glow with happiness, smirking away, that they were sitting in a potentially-gay bar. Something as simple as that. Anders thawed a little. 

‘Looks like you're enjoying those beans.’

‘Perfect,’ Fenris said. ‘Beautiful. An optimal grating of cheese, not too much, not too oily. Very pleased I ordered them for myself. How’s the bacon?’

‘It’s bacon. Much as expected.’ Anders offered the sandwich notwithstanding Fenris’ opinions of bacon. ‘Have a bite.’

The disapproving look was on cue; as was the usual dialogue, ending with Fenris finally ceding a slab of seeded sourdough soggy with beans. They ordered a second round of coffee before leaving to do the grocery shopping. 

Fenris stopped him when they reached their car, indicating the shopping centre where they had parked. ‘Should we try the local here instead of our usual?’

‘Sure -- thinking of buying into the neighbourhood?’ More a joke than a question, but Fenris shrugged, a universal _why not_. 

‘I noticed all the schools as we drove past. Four primary schools in the area and two high schools, public and private. That's something we don't have where we are.’

Anders hadn’t noticed. He felt a pang of shame, of incompetence. A wave of disbelief that Fenris had paid attention, seemingly, to all the random facts from parenting books Anders had been quoting at him for months. _Children._ All this, because they were having a child. 

Which set the mood for the rest of the shop. Not that they were inconspicuous in suits on a Sunday; for once, Fenris seemed oblivious to the eyes, bolstered by their earlier conversations. He dismissed the franchise supermarket's plastic-bagged fresh produce quickly enough, only filling their trolley with the usual shelf groceries. Still paying with cash, despite that Anders had set him up with a swipe card at least a year ago. Outside the supermarket, Fenris ushered them to the smaller, local fresh produce and spent his usual time assessing the quality and displays before selecting to fill the caloric requirement of his MUN to FRY boxes. Courtesy of Fenris’ endless mental lists and chronic efficiency, Anders tended to have no role beyond ghost along leaning on the trolley, idly chatting, while Fenris picked up what he needed as if shopping was a contest for speed. 

Today was strange, Anders feeling hyper-aware of their surroundings. Macha probably shopped here. Anders tried to fantasise a world where he and Fenris lived here, shopped here. The bookstore was going to be a problem. Anders paid no attention to Fenris’ rigid budgets when in bookstores.

In front of them, a father was carrying his baby casually tucked under one arm like a blanket roll. The child — girl? in a pink oneset, little fuzzy feet kicking — looked content, stretched out in a superman pose, peering about freely. So much for literarily approved baby handling procedures. Next they'd make a baby suit with handles on the back.

Anders nudged Fenris, who put down the apples and looked. Let the corners of his mouth curl. Behind them, Anders could hear someone attempting to falsely negotiate a toddler to accept a no, where the toddler wasn’t in the mood to be negotiated. Squeezing past Fenris, a girl with long, bleached blonde hair shot through with black strands let her pregnant stomach lead the way.

‘It must be something in the water.’

Apples forgotten, Fenris was still gazing after the bald, stocky father carrying his baby like a log, expression increasingly soft and open, painfully honest. Vulnerable. If he turned that look to Anders, here, he'd probably start crying again.

Embarrassed, Anders looked away and let his unheeded comment slide.

  



End file.
